


history follows

by Lise (thissugarcane)



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 18:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thissugarcane/pseuds/Lise
Summary: Few others in the galaxy know what it's like to be caught in the gravity well of a planet so deep and endless, you can't see the stars.Post-game.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Post-game, vague references to what happens in the the Revan novel. Thank you to A and Dex for beta'ing, and to Sarah for the title.

Sometimes Meetra feels the truth of her deception to the Council, to the galaxy at large. Her deceit of everyone. She knows the reason only one Jedi came back from the Mandalorian wars; she can feel the thrum of truth in her blood, hear the whispers late at night when she can't sleep. When she's woken from another nightmare.

It isn't the dark side. It isn't any side -- any Force -- not visions or dreams, no secret connections in the dark.

Atton stays asleep while she stares at the view of Coruscant out the window, thinking about the truth of her "salvation", her secret shame. Meetra knows, when Revan called the others to Wild Space, when he pulled so many to fall with him, the only reason she didn't turn to the dark side with him is because _she didn't have the Force._

It wasn't strength or the light that made her turn to the Council. It was emptiness. She had nothing, felt nothing.

Sometimes, Meetra knows there's still Malachor in her, even now that the Wound is healed. Sometimes, Meetra knows Kreia was right.

-

Meetra blinks, groggy in the morning's first few moments. "Is there a rule," Atton asks, "that Jedi aren't allowed to have a good night's sleep?"

She wipes eyes heavy with-- "was I weeping, again?" she murmurs, groggy in the morning's first few moments. There was... a dream.

There's always a dream.

She struggles to sit up, throw the blankets off. Atton is sitting beside her, already dressed, offering a caf as though it can solve everything, fix her nightmares.

"Because," Atton continues conversationally, as if she hadn't spoken at all, "Because I'm going to call extreme bullshit. What is the point of mindless meditation and days of boring ritual if, at the end of it, you still can't sleep?"

Without thinking, Meetra replies, "the Masters would have _hated_  trying to teach you..." then halts, eyes wide. She stares at Atton, eyes apologetic. A lack of sleep is no reason to try and hurt him so early in the day. Meetra doesn't mean to be so cruel.

She doesn't.

After a moment, Atton shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. "I'm worried, and you know how much it takes to worry me."

Meetra downs her caf to postpone answering; Atton watches, typical smirk fixed in place but worry hidden in the depths of his eyes. Still, he lets her get away with the avoidance.

Part of why their relationship hasn't burned out yet is that even though Atton is desperate to know how to help, instead of waiting for an answer, he gets up, goes into the kitchen, and leaves Meetra to pull herself together.

Few others in the galaxy know what it's like to be caught in the gravity well of a planet so deep and endless, you can't see the stars. Few others know that, really, there is nothing to say, there is nothing that makes it better. You endure.

Tomorrow, it'll be Atton awake before dawn, sleepless. Tomorrow, she'll be the one to pretend everything's fine.

Meetra gets up.

-

"What's your agenda like for the day?" Atton asks when she finally emerges from the refresher. She's still groggy and exhausted, but less likely to be so cutting, so unthinking, as to suggest he couldn't hack a padawan's training. Probably. 

Hopefully. Neither of them needs any more self-inflicted wounds.

Atton stares, waiting, and Meetra shakes her head. "I-- they want me to oversee the temple archives," she admits. She can't stop from sighing.

Atton snorts. A short pause, as he squeezes her shoulder. He asks, light, "And so where are we flying today?"

She'd been resigned to a day spent pacing the Temple foundations, watching over construction crews as they slowly expanded the Jedi temple. Even with no Jedi to populate it, Republic senators -- desperate to have some shining beacon of light to point at come re-election -- had begged her to make sure the temple was rebuilt properly.

Nevermind that her training had come in blood, from a master called Sith by a Council that despised her. 

Suddenly, Meetra wants nothing more than to be on the Ebon Hawk, seeing Coruscant disappear behind them before hitting hyperspace. She shrugs, asks Atton, "Do you want to go somewhere specific?"

"No," he hurries to tell her. "Just--"

"I didn't mean -- I only meant..." She falters, tries to smile reassuringly, "I mean, I'd love to go." A pause, and Meetra admits, "It doesn't matter where."

Atton's response is blinding. His wide grin betrays his relief at finding the right thing to say, a temporary solution to her ever-present nightmares. Because of it, Meetra confides, with only a little hesitation, "Last night, it was..." She swallows. She can't hold his gaze, is grateful when Atton allows her to look away. 

Meetra continues, "It's just Malachor. Again."

Nothing else, she wants to reassure him. Nothing else, nothing worse. Just the war.

"Yeah," Atton replies, "okay." 

In the long silence after, as they look at each other with sympathy and swiftly hidden pain, Meetra hears the burning of ships and clashing lightsabers, energies drawn together like imploding stars.

-

They don't tell the Senate they're leaving, so when the traffic tower clears them for launch without incident, Meetra breathes a sigh of relief. "Let's go back to Telos," she says, impulsively.

"Because farming is definitely how I would want to spend my honeymoon," Atton replies, dry.

In the comforting interior of the Ebon Hawk's bridge, Meetra can laugh freely. "You'd have to provide a ceremony," she teases, shoving Atton playfully. "Otherwise it's just a vacation. Besides, plenty of Jedi find meaningful respite through plowing the earth."

It's said as straight-faced as Meetra can manage, and still all Atton does is raise one eyebrow, making her laugh again. She can never break his composure, never make him laugh unless he chooses to laugh. One of the things she loves about him is the chance to keep trying.

"If we see your favourite engineer without some form of tribute, you know he'll make us sleep in a barn or something," Atton retorts.

"You, perhaps," she tells him. Bao-Dur would never force her to wake up under the stars, not after the campaign on Dxun. They shared those thirty-hour siege rotations, those long watches with no shelter, those flashes in the night sky as artillery pounded down. He wouldn't force Atton, either, even though they hadn't fought in the war together; you don't have to share a regiment to understand the terror of finding yourself without a shield generator to protect you from the world.

Atton's skillful piloting takes them into the hyperspace trade routes, where the ship's autopilot can keep watch until they enter the Telos system. His easy confidence in the pilot's chair was one of the first things that attracted Meetra to Atton. A man so unwilling to be serious about anything -- but put a ship under his hands and he could make it sing. Dance.

"I never get tired of watching you do that," Meetra admits, as if it's a secret.

As if to prove he can read her mind, Atton stands, playfully grabs her around the waist, and pulls her against him quickly enough she stumbles, his arms keeping her upright. "Admiring your captain?" Atton asks her, studying her face.

Meetra leans up to kiss him, but Atton pulls back just enough to add, "Why don't you go and sleep for a few hours?"

She wants to argue, even pouts in his face, earning her a deep chuckle, his desire plain. Still, Atton won't lean in. Meetra wants to yank him to one of the back compartments, wants to ride him wildly, in the pilot's chair, like that time they made love after her recognition by the Senate, wants to have her way with him in a completely un-Jedi-like fashion. She wants to be reckless with him, the way they're only willing to be with each other in bed.

But the edges of her vision are still fuzzy, her lack of sleep catching up in the way her skin feels clammy, her head and eyes tight. She can read her exhaustion in Atton's face. 

Maybe she did keep him up last night.

And they both know she sleeps better here than on Coruscant. Meetra retreats with good grace, a lingering kiss as thank you.

-

She wakes as the ship judders, and Meetra hears the clanging that signals Telos's station has caught hold of the Ebon Hawk. Making her way back to the bridge, Meetra is only a little clumsy, dull from sleep. She asks Atton, "How long was I out?"

He doesn't turn from the instruments, from the view of Telos out the front of the ship. "About four hours." Carefully Atton asks, "Feel better?"

Leaning against Atton's chair, Meetra studies the swirling masses of cloud in the uninhabitable zones of the planet. She doesn't want to lie to Atton, so Meetra says nothing. She doesn't want to disappoint him, either, so she leans over to press a kiss to his jaw.

"That bad, huh?" he jokes. His voice is strained, but Meetra knows he understands. The way he goes back to arguing with Telos Citadel Control over the Hawk's landing clearance, rather than pushing her for a confession, proves it.

Meetra goes to gather their gear and scrub her face in the refresher. Staring at the bulkhead above the small sink, she tries to ignore the whisper across her skin, the echoes in her mind, telling her of the damage to the planet below them. The destruction not yet mended.

-

The Ithorians have dug in deep, now that the Senate has found its way to paying for fuel. As Atton brings the ship in to land, Meetra studies the faint shimmers in the atmosphere, signs of the planetary shielding in place. This low in-atmo, the shields criss-cross the landscape like cultivated fields, lines cutting across the brown and green of the planet.

As they descend into the Ithorian compound, Meetra shivers as they pass through the shields. It's her imagination, she knows. It feels like a dousing of cold water on her skin anyway.

Chodo is still on Citadel Station, but one of his herd is there to meet them, offers to show them around. "It's okay," Atton interrupts, his palm warm on Meetra's lower back. He tells the Ithorian, "We know the way. The Council wants us to check on a few things, you know, so..."

The Council has done nothing of the sort; but the Ithorian -- with more welcomes and promises extracted that they'll return for the evening meal -- finally leaves them be. Once he's gone, Atton sighs, moving them away from the administration complex and into the field beyond. "I figured we'd never get him off our backs," he says, voice low.

Meetra chuckles. The Ithorians are a kind people, gentle, polite -- sometimes inconveniently so. Atton's hand is still on her back, guiding her. She wants to point it out, wants to tease him, but doesn't want him to stop touching her, either. Gazing around at the vegetation, at the view beyond the Ithorians' compound, Meetra sees no sign of other habitation. "Where do you think Bao-Dur is?" she asks.

"Uh, the plot of land farthest away from everyone else?" Atton replies. Pointing at a distant hill, planetary shielding glinting just beyond, he adds, "I'd bet somewhere over there."

Meetra's smile falls off her face. Now she's paying attention, she can feel the slight tug, the pull of her pupil, off in the distance. Atton's right. He's alone, camped at the base of the hill.

Her shoulders slump, and Meetra lets out a breath. She can feel the tiny tendrils of life beneath her boots, the little feelers of plants and insect-life. Farther away, in another zone, she can sense larger predators and beasts roaming wild. Meetra can feel them all... and beyond, she can sense the swirling devastation in the zones the Ithorians have yet to tend. Sandstorms, lightning, chaotic energy; no life to speak of.

"Hey," Atton coaxes. "Where'd you go?"

Meetra blinks, and grips Atton's hand. She can sense Bao-Dur, too, and damned if he doesn't feel as much like the sandstorm as the grass. Malachor, always, coming to the fore.

Atton steps away from her -- one step, then two -- his arm outstretched as Meetra doesn't let go. He pulls gently, and Meetra's feet move automatically. Together, they start trekking to Bao-Dur's camp.

Meetra draws a breath, lets it out. Draws another breath in, and matches her pace, her inhalations, her heartbeat, to Atton's.

-

"Well, look what the kath hound dragged in," are the first words out of Bao-Dur's mouth.

Meetra can't help herself; she bursts out laughing. It doesn't mean she can't feel the darkness swirling in him, or herself. But it does mean she can ignore it.

-

"Not that I don't appreciate the extra pair of hands," Bao-Dur tells her, "but I'm curious why you're here, General."

Meetra steadies the generator Bao-Dur's working on with trembling hands, uses her power to keep it aloft when her physical strength isn't quite enough. She doesn't answer, the silence stretching on long enough that Bao-Dur pauses in his repairs to watch her.

"I don't know," she finally admits.

"Fair enough," he tells her as he returns to work, and Meetra knows that for him, it is. Focusing on the generator, perched on shaky scaffolding, Bao-Dur is the picture of calm, of ease. Only she knows better.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she asks him.

It's his turn to give a non-answer. He doesn't hesitate as he tells her, "I would think it obvious: I'm fixing this generator." He solders a part into place, and Meetra steps back. It holds. Bao-Dur descends, and smiles at her, easy. "Kath hounds are apparently the perfect apex predators to introduce to Telos, but they're hell on equipment."

"And people," Meetra replies.

Atton, in the distance and monitoring the power output, waves at the two of them; confirms the repair is done. The two of them make their way back toward Atton, who's already headed for the next generator. Their footsteps are quiet in the grass, pace slow and easy. As they walk, Meetra confesses, "I'm having trouble sleeping. Anywhere but in space."

Bao-Dur doesn't answer, just looks at Meetra thoughtfully. She closes her eyes, uses her senses to step through tall grass and shrubs and over stones and logs, sure-footed the way she never is on Coruscant. No one could see her on Telos. No one knows who she is.

Without opening her eyes, Meetra tells Bao-Dur, "No one else can see it."

It should be nonsensical, means nothing on the face of it, but Meetra can feel him shudder -- she knows he can see the empty hole waiting to devour them both -- as Bao-Dur nods. "Yeah," he agrees.

-

She and Atton help Bao-Dur with the other generators. It takes most of the day, and Meetra's more at peace than she's felt in weeks. Back at the compound, the Ithorians are gracious and welcoming once more. Atton keeps close to her, sits so close to her during the evening meal that she can feel his warmth along her shoulder, her arm, her thigh.

Meetra makes small talk automatically, keeps up a pleasant conversation with the head engineer -- a bioengineer -- throughout the meal. All the while, her thoughts are a thousand miles away, deep within herself. She can still sense the planet.

Atton lets her be, keeps her company with his physical presence. Bao-Dur, across the table, says little.

When the Ithorian beside her offers them their VIP quarters for the night, Meetra blanches, slams back into herself with a deep shudder.

Atton casually puts a hand on her thigh and tells them, "We appreciate it, but we came to, uh, experience the life force of the planet. That's easier outdoors."

Under the table, where no one can see, he squeezes her leg until it hurts; the pain centres her, keeps her from breaking apart, and Meetra takes a shaky breath.

-

Bao-Dur's camp is less comfortable, less inviting than the Ebon Hawk's cramped quarters, but the absence of other people means Meetra falls asleep almost as quickly as she did on the ship.

She dreams of black holes. Of stars so bright, so full of energy, so full of life, they collapse in upon themselves. She dreams of gravity so deep and great and endless nothing can escape it. She dreams of the crushing pressure of gas giants, the centre of the universe, the absence of light. Of the endless, cold, fathomless depths of empty space.

Meetra dreams, as she always does, and as she wakes -- gasping, drenched in sweat -- she knows a seed of that emptiness still lives inside her.

-

Trying to go back to sleep wouldn't be worth the effort, so she gets up. Even though it's the middle of the night, Meetra finds Atton and Bao-Dur keeping a steady watch over their fire. Her distress is written on her face, their answering concern evident. She can sense both men, and knows they can feel her in return.

"Would it help?" Bao-Dur asks her without artifice or preamble, voice low and melodic. "To go back to Malachor. To remind yourself that it's gone."

Meetra hunkers down beside them, studies the sparks as they fly upward. They can't see the sky beyond the shield generators; no stars, no nebulae, just darkness.

"Perhaps only Darth Nihilus could have understood," she mutters. 

"That's morbid," Atton says.

He doesn't contradict her, though, nor ask what she means; a greater gift than any platitudes, any reassurances, any recitation of the Jedi code, or Jedi teachings, or counseling. Atton is willing to allow her the pain, willing to accept he can't _know_  it, even if he can share in it. It gives her the reassurance to keep speaking.

"To devour a planet," she says, mostly to herself. Her dreams are still vivid in her mind, and Meetra speaks without thinking. "Nothing can help that, can it? We-- we just, try."

"Deep wounds scar," Bao-Dur says. It's without judgment, and she looks up. The Iridonian looks troubled, a thousand-yard stare. Still, he smiles at her and she can feel their bond as well. 

Meetra's surprised when Atton speaks again. "I don't know why you won't just admit you're planning to leave."

She's surprised that he can see so deep into her soul, though really, she shouldn't be. Meetra's mostly caught off-guard because until this moment she hadn't known she was planning to disappear. 

True, she's chafing under the Senate's eye, and true, she feels trapped on Coruscant. Meetra isn't the Jedi to rebuild _anything_ , but no one else is left. Revan is gone, disappeared into Wild Space, and Meetra feels like a poor replacement with every sleepless night, with every person who turns to her and expects a Jedi. More and more, the obligations and expectations feel like an avalanche ready to bury her whole...but until Atton points it out, Meetra doesn't realize it. 

Sometimes she feels the depths of Revan's shadow almost as much as she can feel Malachor, pulling her heart apart into little pieces. She can fight the latter; with Atton's help, Malachor is relegated to nightmares and bad days. 

Meetra has no way to fight the shadow cast by her master's legend. Flight is her only option, and her lover knew it before she did. 

"I'll go with you," Atton says. As Meetra starts to reply, he says fiercely, "And I'll _go with you_."

She knows there's nothing more to be said on the subject.

Meetra takes a breath, decides to let go of this, let go of her fear for Atton and herself. She lets go of any argument inside her, and feels the revelation settle into her gut. They'll go. Wherever they go, they'll go. They'll keep moving, because they need to, in order to feel whole. As whole as they can. Neither of them are Jedi the way the Order or the Senate wants, anyway. Not now. Maybe they weren't before, either. She became a Knight under Revan's tutelage, and Atton became one under hers. 

They'll probably die. She could fight him on it, she could leave him behind; but some battles aren't worth fighting. 

Instead, she really thinks about it, and feels a laugh bubbling up. The sheer audacity of the two of them forging their own destinies. The unlikely chance of survival. Perhaps the Force does have a sense of humour, after everything. Meetra watches Atton, who looks puzzled, then glances at Bao-Dur, who is smiling now. Malachor still has hold, but in the face of all her terror, all her obligations, Meetra sometimes forgets: Revan is a legend. During her exile, the only reason the Council thought of her, was guilt.

It's a freeing thought: the Republic still speaks of Revan. They'll forget about Meetra, no matter what she's done.

She says to Atton, "We'll probably both die in the Outer Rim, you know, a sad footnote in a Holocron dedicated to someone else more interesting." 

Meetra doesn't say Revan's name, and allows her wordless thanks to flow through the Force when neither man does, either. Instead, Bao-Dur retorts, "And those you leave behind will drink to your embarrassing deaths. Saving the Republic, only to fall into some canyon."

"Nah! Trip over a gizka," Atton says, slyly. His mouth turns up, as he fights a grin.

"It's more likely something large and stupid with lots of teeth will manage to eat us," Meetra declares. "What?" she says, as they look at her. "We both have excellent coordination, but you get enough kath-hounds in one spot they could eat their way through anything."

"If you are eaten by a kath-hound, General," Bao-Dur says gravely, "I expect you to lie about it. Extensively."

Meetra fights off another grin, keeps her face grave as she tells Bao-Dur, "That'll be your destiny, my friend -- making sure someone covers up our ignoble end, along with everything else."

Malachor still resides within her, Meetra knows. But so will this: Atton looks at Meetra, and laughs.


End file.
